


A Kind of Emptiness (For a moment, I Forget to Worry)

by targaryen_melodrama



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aromantic Steve Rogers, Asexual Steve Rogers, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Just know Infinity War 1 & 2 are over and everyone is happyish-and ALIVE!, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-10 21:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/targaryen_melodrama/pseuds/targaryen_melodrama
Summary: How the hell do you tell your boyfriend, the love of your life that you, like the thousands of teens on the Internet, write fan fiction?





	A Kind of Emptiness (For a moment, I Forget to Worry)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Nova Scotian Representative of Stucky Hive for being a fantastic beta and an even better friend.

_Athena shivered as Xïa’s fingers slowly climbed up her thigh._

_“Jeēvan is on duty tonight, and everyone else went out to celebrate. It’s just you and I_ — _you can make as much noise as you like.”_

_Athena summoned all the skills she had learnt at the Space Academy to force the words out of her trembling mouth. “You plan on making this good enough for me to make noise?”_

_“Oh,” Xïa chuckled breathily, “I plan to use my fingers to_ — _”_

 

Bucky’s ear-splitting alarm completely interrupts the only inspiration he’s had all day.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

This is his fifth time snoozing—Sam was probably already done and waiting for him. Bucky frantically slides his fingers over his laptop’s touchpad to save and close the Word document still titled _Document 3_ , and mentally prepares to have to jog the distance from Williamsburg to Bed-Stuy to make it to Sam in a reasonable amount of time.

He grabs his jean jacket off the back of the tan couch that separates their little office area from their living room, and while he jumps over the couch that’s facing their TV to get to the door, he hears a voice in his head—one that sounds suspiciously like Steve—say _You wouldn’t have to do this if you just told him_.

As with most things in Bucky’s life, that’s easier said than done.

How the hell do you tell your boyfriend, the love of your life—the person you couldn’t have come up with if God themself had asked you to create a partner—that you, like the thousands of teens on the Internet, write fan fiction? _Dirty_ fan fiction at that? ( _Smut_ , his brain supplies, though he hates the word: it sounds like slut, rhymes with rut, and makes him feel like the slimy 106 year-old he is).

Sam had already put so much on the line for Bucky way before they were friends, let alone in a relationship. There was no way he was going to make Sam think something was wrong. Over his dead body. (And when you’d been a feared assassin for 70 years, you meant it when you said things like that.)

Thanks to Tony Stark (and  _that's_ something they'd all had to work on being able to say again), he only has to press one of his thumbs, prosthetic or flesh and blood, to lock the door of their cozy brown townhouse, which means Bucky’s already made it three blocks away from their home in the two minutes since his alarm rang, leafs crackling under his combat boots.

 _Their home_. Even after a full year of living here, it still feels surreal. Hell, Steve still asks him how he manages to live in Brooklyn and not be heartbroken everyday.

The thing is, with everything that happened from “Who the hell is Bucky” to being on the run, from Wakanda to a post-Thanos reconciliation, from “why the fuck am I attracted to Wilson” to “I think I'm in love with Sam”, being here was actually perfect.

He has a place that helps him remember, a place where he feels safe to do so, for the times he longs for the memories of three little girls laughing and a skinny boy with a chip the size of America on his shoulder. At the same time, his old neighbourhood has changed so much that he isn't constantly overwhelmed with loss and missed opportunities. Plus, actually _settling_ here feels like a giant Fuck You to Hydra, sometimes even more so than blowing up their bases or testifying against them in trials.

Here, he does things as mundane as splitting chores with the boyfriend he's made a home with. Here, he has an actual welcome mat in front of his front door, with a black and silver shoe rack next to it. When he bakes(!), he uses actual oven mitts (white ones, with ‘ _Live, Laugh, Love_ ’ on them because Natasha will never change) to get food out of the oven. When he’s cleaning, he reaches the little white basket they’d gotten on a Target shopping spree, the one that’s hidden under their bathroom sink, where they store their cleaning products, as well as the dozen accumulated trinkets that come with owning a home.

In spite of all the odds, he's here, _at_ home, _back_ home, and he's happy.

Mostly.

He rounds the corner to Clint’s street and starts to slow down a little. Once he’s in the apartment building, he picks his pace back up to jog up to the third floor. He's about to knock to make sure he's not interrupting when Kate comes out, long black hair pushed back by a green scarf, and purple leash in her right hand.

“Sam, your boyfriend’s here! Look, Lucky, it's your favorite Cyborg!”

Lucky has already jumped him and slobbered all over his arms and hands before he can even grate out, “Fucks’ sake, Kate.”

“Uncle Bucky,” she gasps, “No swearing in front of the children.” She bends over, one hand covering Lucky’s floppy ears, the other securing the leash to the collar while Lucky is busy begging Bucky for scratches.

Bucky snorts and can’t help but bury his hands in golden fur. “In front of _Barton’s_ dog?”

“Speaking of Clint, we're due for a rematch. He’s been reigning champion for two of the apartment and it’s time for you to knock him down a peg.”

Shit. Bucky’s hands still briefly. Swinging by Clint’s to play darts (their version includes blindfolds, shooting things way more dangerous than darts, and rarely ever standing upright when shooting) always means staying till at least 1:00 AM.

Which means even less time for his story.

“I'll, uh, I'll figure out a time to swing by.”

“We’re meeting here next time too, come over after,” Kate says, getting up. “Just text me to let me know, yeah? Okay, time to say bye to Uncle Bucky. Come on boy, let’s go!”

Kate and Lucky are bounding down the stairs and Bucky’s trying to figure out how to squeeze in more writing time this week when Sam comes out of the apartment, wearing Bucky’s favorite outfit of his. Sam’s burgundy sweater fits perfectly over his chest, and somehow isn’t clashing with the olive bomber jacket Sam’s throwing on. His jeans and sneakers are both black, and with his thick-rimmed copper-colored glasses, he has the perfect ‘Prof after classes are over’ look. It still baffled Bucky that Sam looked even better as he got older.

“You done staring, Barnes?”

“What am I dating you for if I don’t get to watch?”

“My intellect,” Sam starts as he leans over to peck Bucky on the lips, “my excellent cooking skills—”

“Why don’t you give me a proper kiss hello, then we can start talking about why I’m actually dating you?”

Bucky’s arms wrap around Sam’s waist as his boyfriend obliges. He’s sure his smile is this side of dopy when they separate and he breathes, “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Sam answers, smiling indulgently. “Thanks for picking me up. Ready to go?”

“Yeah—wait, has everyone else left already?” Bucky could usually manage a solid two and a half minutes of platitudes before they left.

“A while ago, yeah.”

Bucky has no clue if he should be happy or dismayed that even his Winter Soldier internal clock had let him down. _Get a fucking grip, Barnes_.

“Sorry, darling. Won’t happen again.”

“No sweat, Buck,” Sam says, smile turning fond. “Come on, let’s go home.”

If Sam is smiling, things couldn’t have been that bad this afternoon. Still, as they go down the stairs and leave the building, Bucky takes the time to look him over.

The wind had picked up a tad bit, pushing the longer strands of hair in Bucky's face. Sam zips up his jacket before slipping his left hand in Bucky’s right. Other than the slight chill, everything seems alright. Though Bucky knows he isn’t necessarily the person Sam would want to talk to or confide in after those meetings, he can at least gage if there’s anything he could do at home—and on their way there—to make Sam’s life a bit easier.

The “Ranting Sessions for Heroes of Color” (the working title had never been changed) had started after a particularly rough set of interviews for the Young Avengers. Sam had watched on their couch, on a cold January afternoon, tense, as question after question seemed to leave the new team drained or shaking with barely concealed anger. Eli and Kate were _somehow_ always on the receiving end of those particular interrogations.

Sam sighed, and Bucky had waited, lightly holding his hand.

“It's just…I know what it's like. I know exactly what this is like.  But I was much older when I started following Steve around, and by then I'd already gone through the army. They're just kids—not just our new team, all the others as well. Lots of them are queer, too.”

Eyes still on Sam, Bucky had squeezed his hand and quietly waited for him to finish.

“I should do—well I _could_ do something, I think. I could check in on them? Just every once in a while, see if they have anything they wanna talk about—or not, but at least so they know they’ve got someone, you know?”

“Hmm...You could. But isn’t it just gonna turn into free therapy?”

“No, no, course not. And it shouldn't be just me. I guess this—this could be like the VA meetings? Shit, that’s if they even take me up on it.”

Of course they took him up on it. Most people saw Sam as a role model, the ever-smiling, happily retired ex-Falcon and ex-Cap. Over the months, he could see the kids had learnt to see him a little bit more like Bucky did. Sam had good, bad and ugly days—and sometimes, he'd told Bucky, he had no clue why the fuck he even tried.

The kids could relate.

So every Wednesday, barring an alien invasion, Sam and a few of the older and/or retired crowd met with the younger and active one at someone’s apartment to rant, cry or laugh. Most times, it was a little bit of all three.

(This is all according to Sam, anyway. Bucky is (of course) not allowed in the meetings, despite Clint asking  “With the whole Russia thing, Barnes, doesn’t that make you a—whaddaya call ‘em Katie—a ‘spicy white’?” Kate had opened her mouth, closed it, and finally simply said: “...No—just. No.”)

Bucky smiles a little to himself, choosing not to share with Sam what had become a running joke: Sam had retired from one thing to jump straight to the other. It was only eight weeks after Sam had said “End of the world only, Steve, don’t call me for shit else” that he’d announced he was was looking to get his Ph.D. in clinical psychology.

Six intense years later, Sam was helping out at the local VA once a week, taught Group Counselling and Counselling Theories and Techniques at Lehman twice a week, and still made time for the Heroes of Color meetings, his friends and family, and Bucky.

The thought of just how much Sam accomplishes any given week makes the smile slide off Bucky’s face. His boyfriend being amazing makes it even harder to be...dishonest? Bucky doesn’t even fucking know what to call the sneaking around he’s doing.

It isn’t so much that he thinks Sam would mind that he writes stories: his hobbies hadn’t been the healthiest when he started living in the real world and he would forever be grateful to Sam for indulging him for so long. After all, it was only two years ago—three years into their relationship—that he’d finally stopped sharpening his knives whenever they were watching _Say Yes to the Dress_. (“Long as you keep your knives away from my coffee table, Barnes.”)

He doesn’t want to have to explain _why_ he does it. Some things Sam doesn’t need to be burdened with, or doesn’t need to try to solve. He needs to rest. He _deserves_ it.

“Would love to know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours,” Sam says, squeezing his hand like he’d been trying to get his attention. They’d been walking in silence, pretty much like usual, but they’re already close to home; Bucky hadn’t realized how long he’d been quiet.

Bucky turns away from his boyfriend’s smart and inquisitive eyes and says, “I’m...thinking of strategies to kick Barton’s ass next week.”

“Well, what do you got so far?”

“Not much, but—”

“You better come up with something. I’m getting real tired of handing over my hard-earned money to Natasha’s greedy ass every week.”

“Then stop betting on me, baby, it’s that simple.”

He can _feel_ Sam’s raised eyebrow, even without looking over at him. “Last time I did that, you changed every single name in my contacts to a different bird species.”

“Aren’t you glad your boyfriend shares your interests? You’re welcome. Seriously.”

“I could bribe Kate?”

“Barton would never let me hear the end of it.”

“ ‘S not like he’s letting you have it now.”

“Hey, how is sassing me conducive to me kicking Clint’s ass?”

They’re rounding the corner of their street. Bucky thinks Sam’s all out of ideas when he says:

“What if I withhold se—never mind.”

“Yeah Wilson, don’t play yourself.”

“Lord,” he laughs, “I almost did. And we would’ve lasted what, 48 hours?”

“More like 36.”

Sam chuckles again as they climb up the stairs to their house. He sticks a thumb out to open the door, but his hand hovers. He turns to look at Bucky and asks, “You okay?”

“I’m okay, darling. Promise. You?”

“I’m fine,” he sighs. He pecks Bucky on the cheek, and adds, a little seriously, “I’m really good, Bucky.”

Sam lets his thumb touch the pad, and they make their way in. As Bucky toes off his shoes, he reminds himself that it’s all that matters.

As long as Sam is okay, Bucky can pretend everything else is fine, too.

***

 _“So what would you have me do? Confess that even when she’d expected just sex, all those months ago, I was already head over heels? That I make extremely poor decisions when it comes to my love life? When it comes to her?” Athena was getting increasingly frustrated._ _Jeēvan was the smartest person this side of the galaxy._ _How could they not get this?_

_“How long have you known each other? Cared for each other? She will still love you, even if it’s not in the way you wish it was.”_

_“But she’ll think I was dishonest! She’ll think I’m dissatisfied with what we have going on now, and I don’t want her to doubt my love for her for a second.”_

_“There is nothing honorable about hiding one’s feelings, Young Athena.”_

_“_ _Jeēvan_ _, for once in my life, I don’t give a shit about honor. This isn’t about the Empress being increasingly prone to anger, or about the Fleet lacking resources. This is about my feelings for a woman I—”_

 

“...Earth to Bucky?”

Bucky’s fingers are itching for a keyboard. It had been a week since he was late to pick up Sam, and he hadn’t really been able to think about his story without feeling guilty. While he was waiting for Steve to get their coffees, his mind had wandered and he'd _finally_ figured out the part of his story when Athena was finally going to confess—out loud, that is—the depth of her feelings for Xïa—

“Buck?”

Shit. Steve has that deep frown on his face. Funny, considering Steve probably thinks Bucky’s having a ‘Lost in My Fucked up Brain’ moment, not a ‘How Do I Write The _(Fuck)Friends to Lovers_ Part of My Story About Two Intergalactical Princess-Warriors Based On A Pulp Novel Turned Hulu Movie’ moment.

“ ‘M good, Stevie. Promise.”

“Okay. Ready?”

As usual, as they get started on their Central Park stroll, Steve hands over Bucky’s coffee, then slips his right arm in Bucky’s left—which does nothing to dispel the rumors that they were in a romantic relationship, despite Steve coming out as aromantic and asexual years ago, and explaining that quite a number of years ago, he had realized he’d never felt romantic or sexual attraction at all.  

Bucky’s glad there are so many words to help them both now, though it'd taken a while for the world to accept (or at least tolerate) them too. It wasn’t so long ago that Steve had simply stopped answering the public’s questions, frustrated, angry and incredibly upset after months of explaining that he still had loved the hell out of Peggy, just not in the way the stories had been written.

It’s part of why Bucky had fallen in love with Athena and Xïa, despite his beloved characters appearing in a poorly written novel turned poorly written, low-budget movie. And who the _hell_ thought casting—okay, no. If he gets started on casting choices, he'll never be able to actually listen to Steve.

“How’ve you been, Buck?”

Bucky can't help but crack a smile. Though they talked almost everyday, this is how Steve always started their walks.

“Hmm, pretty okay. Wasn't much work for me to do at the library yesterday, so I got sent home early.”

While Sam was busy at school, the VA or other meetings, Bucky volunteered at their local library on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was perfect, really: they couldn't afford to hire someone else though they needed it, and it was convenient for one of their few staff members to be able to carry boxes and boxes of books from their crowded storage room without breaking a sweat. Bucky liked to have a quiet, peaceful space to spend his time in and feel useful. Plus, when it was quiet, or when one of the librarians was also in, he would stick around the science section and read his fill.

Bucky had been busier than that some two years ago, when he had therapy appointments on Mondays and Wednesdays, but at the moment, he stuck to his meds, and attended a few meetings at the VA if something was more off than usual.

“That's it?”

“Mostly, yeah. Talked to Shuri—we're all due for a visit soon. How you holdin’ up?”

“Fine,” Steve sighs. “Yesterday I tried taking a nap and I ended up rearranging my furniture.”

Unsurprisingly, Steve, being the most recently retired, was the one having the most trouble with the retired life. Over Bucky’s laughter, he continues. “Silver lining: my bedroom and my studio are both completely reorganized and I finally finished the Fellowship of the Ring movies.”

“You're worse than Sam,” Bucky grins. “Fuckin’ overachievers, I swear.”

“Who’da thought you'd be someone's kept man, huh Buck?”

Steve immediately tries to soften the blow by bumping their shoulders together—as much as he can with their arms being linked—and saying, “I'm real proud of you for enjoying your retirement, though.”

“Yeah, yeah, well I wish I could say the same. You'd think you'da learned some lessons at 104 years old.”

“Don't think I can't see you deflecting and not taking the compliment.”

“Pots and kettles and all that, Steve.”

Bucky _is_ deflecting, but that's ‘cause he's not sure Steve would be so proud if he knew about Bucky’s secret writing. But then again, Steve’s seen him through worse. Much worse.

Couldn't hurt to ask, right?

“Hey. Steve. Say, hypothetically, you had a friend—”

“Is Sam alright?”

“Doing as well as he did when you left him three hours ago,” Bucky answers rolling his eyes. “And I said _hypothetically_.”

“Sure. Hypothetically.”

“ _Hypothetically_ , asshole, say you had a friend you had a great relationship with. Then, you find out your friend has been...writing.”

“A diary?”

“No...like. Writing. Stuff.”

Steve looks at him briefly, his face the perfect mix of confusion and support. “O—kay?”

He’s gonna have to spell it out isn’t he? _Not like you made it obvious in the first place_.

“Uh, let’s say, _hypothetically_ , like...”

“Like?”

“Like those romance novels,” Bucky mutters.

They walk in silence for a minute or so. There hasn’t been an awkward silence between the two of them in a few years now, and this is as close as they’re getting to one. Of course, Steve's the one to break it.

“Okay. My friend—”

“Your good friend.”

“My good friend writes romance novels—”

“The ones where the characters fuck.”

“The ones...where the characters fuck. And?”

“ _And_ ? Stevie, they’re your _friend_. You make them _happy_. Why do they need something else—why do they feel—”

“Whoa, whoa, Buck. It’s a book, a hobby. An interesting one at that.”

Interesting. Yeah.

“Bucky,” Steve says pointedly, like he can sense Bucky’s suspicion. “People do loads of things, whether they’re happy or not. And I don’t know about you, but I could do with having a friend who writes romantic stories as opposed to, I don’t know, a friend who plans to invade the city by turning rodents against humans?”

“Goddamn, that one was disgusting.”

“Five years later and I'm still scared of rats, Buck. I live in New York City, and I'm scared of rats.”

Well. Writing smut (ugh) _is_ better than being a stereotypical super villain. Still.

“Maybe,” Steve continues to avoid forgetting his point (or to drag his mind away from rat rangers and squirrel infantry), “maybe if I was really worried, I'd make sure my friend had support. If I know them—your friend I mean—chances are they've been through a lot. I'd make sure the little things, you know, the regular stuff was alright, too.”

“That makes sense. I think.”

“Yeah?” The way Steve’s smiling, you would've thought Bucky had ended world hunger.

“Yeah.”

“Good. And Buck—tell your friend that companionship doesn’t fix everything. And that you’re allowed to be just okay, or even to be happy, and still need to do things to feel better.”

“Huh. How am I just now finding out you ain’t _completely_ full of shit?”

“You’d already know if you listened to me one day in your life.”

“ _You_ , Steve Rogers,” Bucky scoffs, “you're givin’ me shit about listening to people?”

“Did you listen to me the last time I said ‘don't challenge Natasha to hand to hand, Bucky’? When I said ‘ask Sam out, he might surprise you’? Did you listen then?”

“Don't bring my guy into this, Rogers.” The smile Bucky’s holding in is threatening to crack any minute now.

“I introduced you to your guy, Barnes. _And_ I got best friend privileges,” he smirks raising his right arm slightly to show off his matching gold bracelet, the engraved ‘ _Wilson & Rogers_ \-- _On your left_ ’ barely visible from that angle.

“Shut up.” Bucky buries his laughter into his drink, and takes a long sip of his cappuccino. “Drink your fuckin’ coffee before I make it mine.”

“Yes sir.”

They walk quietly for a few more minutes, the silence only interrupted by the muted sounds of the city and the crunch of the leaves beneath their feet. Once again, Steve breaks the silence.

“Remember when the chipmunks ambushed us?”

“I didn’t _wanna_ die, but it’d be kinda funny if of all the shit that could’a killed us over 100 years, it ended up being rats.”

“Funny or pathetic?”

“Both. Definitely both.”

***

A few weeks later, Bucky’s rushing up the stairs of their brownstone, trying to escape the cold after finishing his darts game fairly early. Kate and Clint were out on back to back missions, so it had been three weeks before they could actually meet. Bucky had been _this_ close to beating Barton, and despite having lost, he’s in a pretty good mood.

Sam’s usually asleep by 11:30 PM and it’s 12:05, so Bucky opens the door as quietly as he can. This should be a good time to get a little writing in. He takes off his boots and starts a little when he sees Sam at his computer.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the desk chair, wearing the gray cashmere blend sweatpants Bucky got him for his birthday, a worn Star Wars T-Shirt, and his glasses. Bucky comes around the couches to kiss Sam hello.

“Hey,” he smiles at Bucky. “Forgot my laptop at school and I still have a few emails to send off.”

“No worries. I'll hit the shower, then.”

“Cool. Hey Buck,” Sam calls as Bucky's heading to their bathroom, “the computer restarted earlier for an update. There was a file called Document 3 that almost got deleted. I opened it to see if I should save it—”

There’s a ringing in Bucky’s ears. This cannot be happening.

“You writing short stories?” Sam asks with a smile. It immediately falls off his face when he takes a look at Bucky. “Baby?”

_This is why you can’t have nice things, Barnes._

“I—wait. I’m sorry, I—”

“What are you apologizing for?”

“I'm sorry, Sam. Please—please don't go.”

Sam frowns. “I’m not going anywhere, baby.” He leaves the desk chair and moves to sit on the couch, as if to prove just that. “Bucky, what’s going on?”

Sam’s face is completely neutral, and under any other circumstances Bucky wouldn't mind, but he needs to know what Sam is feeling right now.

“Are you,” he asks quietly, “are you mad?”

“I—I, no. I'm not mad, Bucky.” Sam’s frowning again. “Is it—are you...ashamed?”

“No, I’m not...I’m not ashamed, but it's…”

Sam's still confused, and now he’s looking increasingly worried, and _fuck_. This is exactly what Bucky didn't want to happen.

“It isn’t the story itself, it’s…” Bucky sighs and sits on the couch next to Sam. Not too far, but not nearly close enough.

“It started when I couldn’t sleep. It would be 2, 3 AM, and I would wake up—not, not from a nightmare or anything—but I would just wake up in the middle of the night, and I couldn't fall back asleep. I didn’t wanna wake you if I wasn’t gonna do anything while awake, I know how hard it is for you to fall back asleep when you’re woken up,” Bucky explains, anticipating his boyfriend’s question.

This—this here is the part he never wanted to say out loud in the first place. Sometimes he longs—and Bucky knows it’s wrong—but sometimes he longs for the days when he wasn’t able to string more than two sentences together, when he couldn’t open up even if he tried.

 _Fuck_. Who is he kidding? This is Sam. This is _Sam_ , and the reason he didn't wanna say anything is because he knows it's out of his control. The words will tumble out of his mouth, rushed and unclear, but they'll come out, because it's Sam _._

“It’s—the thing is, I started writing because I woke up with the feeling that something was...clawing at my chest. And sometimes—sometimes my chest feels...empty, I don’t—it feels like there’s something missing sometimes. I don’t really think about it, I can keep it in when I’m with you, or Steve, or at the Tower, but at 2:23 AM on a Tuesday night, it’s just there. _I’m_ just there. Empty and I don’t fucking know why.”

He takes a deep breath before he goes on. “So it’s easy. It’s easy, and it feels real good to just write cute bullshit about people who don’t ever have to worry about Nazis coming back to fuck with them—or with the people they love the most. And even with the saddest, the worst of the characters, I can just—I get to give them a happy ending. They get to be happy.”

“But, but Sam _,_ darling— _you_ make me happy. There is no universe in which I would give this up, and I would never—” Bucky’s voice cracks, and everything he’s afraid of comes out at once.

“I would never want you to think that I don’t want to be here. That I don’t love you with every part of my fucked up heart. There isn’t a thing in this goddamn world that would hurt me more than for you to think that I don’t—” The tears he’d been holding back break free, and he just—Bucky just can’t speak anymore, so he can’t protest when Sam fiercely wraps his arms around him and just holds on.

“Shhh, baby,” he says softly, his words carrying over Bucky’s sobs, “Shhh, sweetheart, I know. I know.”

Bucky has no clue how long they stay like that, in each other’s arms rocking slightly back and forth, but when Sam presses a kiss to his temple and asks, voice still soft, “You mind if we lie down?”, all Bucky can do is shake his head; his throat feels scraped raw.

Sam lets go of him, but keeps a hand on his upper arm. He gets up slightly, moves to sit behind Bucky. He wraps his arms around him again, and slowly brings them both down. Even through it all, his mind can’t help but whisper that this is perfect. This is exactly what he needs.

“Can we stay like this? Please?”

“Of course. We’ll stay right here, long as you like.”

*

Hours later, they’re in the same position, but the sun is starting to show through the clouds. Their living room is still mostly dark: the off-white rug couldn't be distinguished from the dark hardwood floor, but their furniture was starting to cast shadows on the walls. It was getting chilly, even in the safety of their house.

Bucky lifts his upper body slightly, grabs the folded blanket from the arm of the couch, and tucks them in, covering every inch of their bodies. Once he’s done, Sam’s arms wrap around him again, like he hadn’t moved at all.

Tucked in like this, safe and warm, Bucky doesn’t tense when Sam starts to speak.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hmm. Better.”

“Are you up for talking?”

“Yeah.” Bucky burrows down even more and lets Sam’s voice wash over him.

“First, I'm sorry you’ve been feeling this way for so long.”

“ ‘S alright. It's not your fault.”

“It isn't, but I'm still sorry you haven't been feeling well, and that you couldn't talk to me about it. I…I always want you to feel safe here.”

Bucky sighs. “I do feel safe here. ‘S why I didn't wanna tell you. All of this I feel,” Bucky moves a hand in a circular motion over his chest, “none of it is because of you. Or because I don't feel safe.”

Bucky yawns and points his toes to stretch his body.

“I'm happy. I'm just...there's...there's stuff I still...need to deal with, I guess.”

“Okay,” Sam nods, taking a few seconds to ponder this. “Okay.”

Completely contradicting his words and calm tone, Sam's body is getting more and more tense, like he'd been working on being relaxed for Bucky’s sake and couldn't hold it in anymore.

Even if he didn't feel the need to reassure Sam, Bucky still has things to say, and the worst of it is out there already, so he lets the rest out.

“Sam,” he starts, tightening his hold on his boyfriend’s hand, “At first, I was scared of what this meant. We've been together so long, and I've never been _un_ happy. I couldn't understand why I felt this way. And then, when I realized it was just me and my problems...I was scared that you’d think that _I_ thought there was something wrong with you. Or...or with us. I love you. And I'm happy with our relationship. We're good together,” he finishes softly. “It's one of the few things I know.”

“I get that, baby, I do. It's just...I want to be able to help you. It's hypocritical,” he says ruefully, “ ‘cause I know exactly how you feel. I've been there. But I wanna be there for you, you know?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. We'll have to work on it.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Sam sighs. “We will. And baby?”

“Yeah?”

“It's okay to do...stuff you don't think I'll like. Or stuff you think is weird. Or just...regular, civilian things. Being happy doesn't mean you don't need things to make you feel good.”

“I know.”

“Okay.” This time, it feels like Sam means it, but his words echo around in Bucky’s brain for a while. They remind him of what Steve had said on their last walk. His brain is telling him there’s something there, but he can’t quite put his finger on it.

It could be three minutes or it could three hours, but finally, it comes to him.

 _Regular, civilian things_. That’s been his life for a while, hasn’t it?

“Sam?”

“Hmm?”

“I think...I think I should do therapy again.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think...I think we worked through the major stuff, when I first got out,” he explains, using the euphemism Steve had coined all those years ago. “We worked through it a lot. But we didn’t do anything about...regular bullshit. Like...the things I feel and all.”

“That sounds like a good idea, Buck. And whenever you're ready, I'll be there.”

For the first time since he saw Sam in front of his computer, Bucky feels like things are starting to look up. And if they get messed up again, well, he knows Sam’ll be there.

“I know you will.” He means it. “Sam?”

“Yeah Buck?”

“I think...I wouldn’t mind if you read them. My stories, I mean. Not now, but someday. Soon.”

Sam tightens his arms around him and presses a kiss into his hair.

“I’d love to.”

***

_“Don't worry about me, love—there'll be plenty of beautiful Cadets to keep you occupied while you're back at the Academy.”_

_Athena laughed softly. “You really think they'll keep my attention when I have you waiting for me back home? I know I said you were the smartest woman I know but_ —” _Whatever barb Athena was about to make was stopped by Xïa gently kissing her._

_Athena loathed being interrupted, but it seemed that once again, Xïa was the exception to every single one of her rules._

 

After a thorough final revision, Bucky types ‘ _To Make You See Me’_ in the title box, saves his draft and closes his browser window. He’ll worry about tags and the actual posting later. Bucky thought the thrill of posting a new story couldn’t get any better, but knowing he’ll be posting without an aftertaste of guilt feels even better.

It’s already 6:00 PM, but Bucky’s in a mood to do something. He takes a look through the window, and the fine layer of snow that's covering the ground makes him immediately forget about any plans that involve going outside.

He gets off of the computer chair, stretches his entire body and throws himself on the couch facing their TV.

Right as he’s about to yell for Sam to join him so they can catch up on their shows, Sam steps out their bedroom, closes the door and heads toward him, with an expression Bucky’s never seen before.

“Hey,” he starts. He isn’t sad or happy, and it doesn’t sound like Sam’s going to go through another depressive episode.

“Sam?” Bucky starts to wiggle around the couch so they can cuddle, but Sam puts a hand on his thigh to stop him from moving. He lowers himself down on two knees, between Bucky’s legs. Not three seconds later, he seems to change his mind and squats down low, his body still framed by Bucky’s legs.

“I, uh. I have something to ask you, but I’m not sure how to ask. I don’t want you to think I’m asking for the wrong reasons.”

Since he isn’t sure what’s going on in Sam’s head and he knows it’s better to give Sam his space to talk, Bucky waits. Whatever it is, it can’t be—

Fuck. Holy mother of— _Fuck_.

Sam, _oh God_ , Sam is holding up, between his left thumb and forefinger, a flat titanium band with the smallest round white stone in the middle.

Bucky’s hands are shaking, his vision’s blurring and just—fuck, _fuck_ —words. He needs to say words.

They’re not coming out.

He looks at Sam instead, hoping for an explanation or a question or at least for reassurance. Looking at Sam is usually what he does when his world’s flipped upside down.

Sam is smiling, small and vulnerable. His brown eyes are bright, unsure, and as beautiful as ever.

“I...I’ve been thinking about this for a while now and when we talked about your stories the other day, I…" Bucky nods for him to go on.

“I want you to know that whatever you’re going through, I’m here. Always. But I don’t want you to think that I’m doing this because of what you told me, okay? I’m not doing this to reassure you that I’m not mad, or whatever.”

“Then what...what are you doing it for?” Bucky’s voice sounds foreign to his own ears.

Sam chuckles slightly. His eyes are on the edge of the rug below their feet, but Bucky can still see him blinking really fast. “Well, for starters, when have I not listened to the Queen? I like it, so I’m putting a ring on it.” He sighs and laughs again, quiet and incredulous.

“Second, I never thought...after Riley I didn’t know if I’d ever have a place to be myself, to feel safe again. And then you showed up, just...marched your way into my heart and next thing I know you and I are here, making a home.”

“And...and last—this is the part I was worried about, but I need you to know. What happened last week, whatever happens in a month, or in a decade, whether you’re comfortable telling me or not, I don’t need to know. You can take your time telling me. I have your back—I always have. It’s one of the few things I know,” he smiles, echoing Bucky.

“So,” he says after a brief pause, “what do you say, Barnes?”

“Wilson,” he sniffles, “You’re not even down on one knee.”

“Fuck you,” Sam laughs. It sounds a little watery, but Bucky’s right there with him.

“You started your proposal with ‘I have something to ask you’,” he says, cry-laughing, “and finished it with ‘what do you say’. You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” All the snark Bucky tried to summon isn’t really necessary with his voice cracking on the word special. “You’re lucky I love you so fucking much.”

Sam smiles that gapped grin of his, and he lets the band slip into the palm of his left hand so he can grab Bucky’s right. “Will you, then? Will you let me have your back, James Buchanan Barnes? Forever?”

“I will. I do. I—yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes.” Bucky launches himself from the couch and dives into Sam’s arms.

He doesn’t even know how the hell they manage to get the ring on what with all the laughing and crying and kissing. All he knows is the warmth of Sam’s face in his hands, the strength of Sam’s arms around his waist and the sweetness of Sam’s lips on his.

His fiancé tastes like joy and feels like home.

*

“James…hmm….James...”

“Barnes that was some damn good sex, but did I really make you forget your own name?”

“James Barnes-Wilson. James Wilson-Barnes.”

“...”

“James Buchanan Barnes-Wilson. James Buchanan Wilson-Barnes.”

“Why can’t _I_ take your last name? And why do we have to hyphenate?”

“Samuel Barnes is nice. Samuel Wilson-Barnes’ decent, even, but Sam Barnes sounds like the name of the dickhead owner of a hipster coffee shop.”

“Uh huh.”

“I think we gotta go with James Wilson-Barnes.”

James Buchanan soon-to-be Wilson-Barnes lifts his face off of Sam’s naked chest and looks up at his fiancé. They’re lying in bed, sweaty, sticky, and really fucking happy. “Got a problem with me taking your name, Wilson?”

“I got a problem with the fact that we're not starting round 2 of We Just Got Engaged sex.” Sam’s trying to be stern. It would work if it wasn’t for the fond smile on his face.

Sam removes his arms from behind his head, grabs Bucky’s shoulders and hoists them both up so they’re leaning against the headboard. He puts a foot down on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“If we’re not gonna fuck again for a while, we’re taking a shower.”

“Heading in the shower together _means_ fucking. You’re not slick, Wilson.”

“What does a guy need to do to have sex with his fiancé?” Sam puts his foot back on the bed, turns to face Bucky and uses his best, most innocent _this is only a suggestion_ voice. “Maybe I should try one of those tactics your characters use to seduce each other.”

The bastard doesn't even falter when Bucky gasps. Sam talks a big game, but he’s just as much of an asshole as Bucky.

They’re gonna be two assholes stuck together. Forever.

Smiling his friendliest smile, Sam continues. “We can even recreate one of your porn scenes, if you like. I really like the one where Athena’s on the floor on all fours—”

Unfortunately, even being smacked in the face with a pillow can't quite quiet down Sam's hearty cackle.

***

**_5:04 AM_ **

**_(Star)Ship has Sailed posted a note on his dashboard._ **

_Hi everyone. I know I said I’d post later today, but life happened (in a really good fuckin’ way, I swear) and I got a little busy. I’ll post soon, and I think I might actually be inspired to add an extra chapter._

_Thanks._

_Ps: I’m on Tumblr at starshiphassailed._

  
  
**End**.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, I'd love to know what you thought in the comments!
> 
> Title is from Florence and the Machine's Hunger, off their new album ~~A Gut Punch in the Feelings~~ High as Hope.
> 
> Also, I am not asexual and/or aromantic, so if anything here's wrong or offensive, please let me know and I'll change/remove it.
> 
> Also also, here's the engagement [ring](http://manworksdesign.com/titanium-mens-wedding-band-with-diamonds/mens-titanium-ring-solitaire-diamond-wedding-band-beautiful-titanium-mens-wedding-band-with-diamonds/) I had in mind. 
> 
> Lastly, I am on [Tumblr](http://targaryenmelodrama.tumblr.com) if you wanna drop by!


End file.
